by Jade Allen
“What did you want him to be?” Sophie rolled her eyes and I watched as she brought her feet up onto the bench, hugging her knees with one arm while she continued smoking with the other hand.
“I wanted him to be…self-sufficient. Confident. Not in that cheesy, macho way; I wanted him to be secure in what we had together, in who I was and who he was.” Sophie chuckled. “Palm Beach County guys are all the same.”
“Hey! I resemble that remark,” I told her tartly. “Well, kind of. I don’t live in the 561 anymore.”
“I’m guessing you don’t have a place to stay tonight?” Sophie looked at me intently. “Mark is crashed out on Kelsey’s couch, and you’re still too drunk to drive anywhere.” I nodded.
“I can catch an Uber or a Lyft someplace,” I said.
“Or you can sleep on my couch,” Sophie countered. “As long as you promise you’re not trying to make a move on me.”
“I will be a perfect gentleman,” I told her. Sophie stubbed out her cigarette and flicked it into the trashcan.
“Finish that and I’ll let you in,” she said, nodding towards my hand holding the cigarette. I took a final, quick drag and pinched off the ember, tossing it into the trash.
“Lead the way,” I said, smiling in what I hoped was a friendly way. Sophie wavered for a moment as she stood, and I reached out to steady her, but before I could even touch her she’d straightened up and started towards the door she’d pointed out to me before. She reached into her purse and fumbled around for a few seconds; I heard the clinking of her keys, and the next moment she’d found them.
“Be warned,” Sophie said, turning to look at me over her shoulder as she shoved the key into the lock, “my house is kind of a disaster.” She paused, frowned, and looked at me again. “You’re not allergic to cats, are you?”
“Nah, my mom always kept a cat when I was growing up—I am fine with them.”
“Good,” Sophie said. She turned the key in the lock and then opened the door. The alarm went off, screeching, and she gestured for me to hurry in behind her and close the door as she went to the keypad to shut off the security system. “Drogon! Where is my pretty kitty?” Sophie turned on a light in the main area of the apartment just in time for me to see a small, black, nimble-looking cat emerge from the bedroom.
“Drogon?” Sophie shrugged, grinning in a tipsy way. She knelt on the floor and the cat darted towards her, jumping onto her lap with a chirping mew.
“Just call me Khaleesi,” Sophie said jokingly. The cat looked up at me doubtfully as Sophie petted him, and I could hear him purring as loudly as a Formula One engine, rubbing against Sophie’s hand and leaning against her chest. Lucky fucking cat, I thought enviously. I leaned against the wall and watched as Sophie stroked and murmured to her familiar as well as any witch on the planet could. After a few moments she looked up and smiled wryly. “I’m being a bad hostess,” she said, shaking her head. She rose and Drogon leapt from her lap, darting into the darkness of the living room. Sophie pointed behind me. “That’s the kitchen,” she said, flipping on another light switch. “Off to the right is the bathroom.” The living room lit up and I saw the couch: it was just long enough for me to lie full length, made of battered black leather, with an afghan thrown over the back.
“This is not a disaster,” I said, gesturing to the cluttered but clean space. “Clearly you’ve never been to Mark’s place. Or mine.” Sophie raised an eyebrow and turned towards the bedroom.
“Let me get you a pillow and a blanket,” she said. “At the other end of the living room is the door to the porch, if you want to smoke.” I walked over to the couch and sat down as Sophie disappeared into her room, closing the door behind her. After a moment, Drogon poked his head out from behind the entertainment center and looked up at me, letting out a curious meow. I patted the couch and he looked at me doubtfully.
“Suit yourself,” I told him, kicking off my shoes and pulling my keys, phone, wallet, my cigarettes and lighter out of my pockets. I set them all down on the coffee table and stretched against the tightness in my neck and back, looking around the apartment. Sophie had some art up: I recognized a piece by Adam Sheetz, vivid with its surreal, calculated grotesqueness, another one by Dana Donaty; she also had a couple of prints: a Monet next to the bathroom door, a Van Gogh at the entrance into the kitchen.
Sophie came out of the bedroom in a wisp of a tank top and equally skimpy shorts, her face scrubbed clean, her hair brushed, a pillow and blanket in her arms. “I didn’t know you liked art,” I said, gesturing at the different pieces scattered around the room. Sophie shrugged.
“I minored in art history in college,” she explained, handing the pillow and blanket to me. Somehow, in her pajamas, barefoot, with no makeup on her face, she looked even cuter than she had either of the two times I’d seen her before; she looked almost girlish, her eyes softened, her mouth sweet.
“What was your major?” Sophie padded over to the kitchen, yawning.
“Dual major: English and Anthropology,” she told me. I heard the squeak of a cabinet opening. “Want a glass of water?”
“Sure,” I replied. I heard glasses clinking against each other, the faucet coming on, the clatter of ice. Sophie came back into the living room with a glass of ice water in each hand. “English, Anthropology, and art history,” I said. “No wonder you’re a bartender.” Sophie rolled her eyes.
“I didn’t ever really intend to use my degree for a specific career anyway,” she said, handing me one of the glasses. She took a long sip from the other one. “I figured I’d just come up with something once I graduated.” I laughed.
“I’m not much better,” I said. “I studied art and design.” I pointed to the Adam Sheetz print next to the TV. “Actually had a couple of classes with Adam.”
“So how did you end up the bass player for a huge band instead of becoming the next big cult artist?” I shrugged.
“One of those choices you make,” I said. “I figured I’d try my hand at both, and whichever one showed more promise sooner I’d throw all my weight behind, and that was Molly Riot.” I drank down some water, and Drogon decided he was brave enough to venture out from behind the entertainment center. He mewed at Sophie pathetically and she walked over to him, scooping him up off of the floor.
“I should probably get to sleep,” she said with a sigh, drinking down another gulp of water. “We’re doing a deep clean at Respects tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” I said, setting my glass down on the coffee table—on one of the coasters I saw there.
“There’s a charger station next to the TV—I think I’ve got just about every kind of cable,” Sophie told me. “Other than that, I guess if you’re up by the time I am, I’ll make breakfast.” I grinned.
“For someone who didn’t even want me to stay the night, you’re being really kind.” Sophie rolled her eyes, smiling.
“Once you walk in the front door, you are my guest and therefore I have to be a good hostess. Get some sleep.” She yawned and turned to the bedroom, and I started getting comfortable on the couch.
The pillow smelled like Sophie—I hadn’t even realized that I’d picked up on the sweet-flowery smell that clung to her until I breathed in and caught the scent on the pillow. Whatever shampoo she used, it was awesome. I buried my face against the pillowcase and breathed in and out for a few moments before I realized what a freak that probably made me. I turned over on my side facing the back of the couch and tried to will myself to sleep. I was tired enough: the show had been intense, it was about three or maybe four in the morning, and I’d been in the studio from nine that morning until about two in the afternoon before we’d called it a day; but for the longest time I lie there wide awake, staring at the back of the couch, wondering about Sophie. It was stupid. It was beyond stupid. But I couldn’t help it.
****
I must have fallen asleep at some point; I woke up to the sound of meowing and the sliding glass door moving along its track. I turned over on th
e couch and nearly spilled off of it, opening my eyes just in time to catch sight of Sophie stepping through the open door and onto the patio, while Drogon darted out between her feet. Sophie must have heard me—or maybe seen me in the corner of her eye. She turned and smiled ruefully. “Sorry—I thought you were pretty deeply asleep,” she said.
“Don’t sweat it,” I told her, scrambling around onto my feet. I’d woken up at some point and gotten my jeans off—they were just too uncomfortable—and I probably should have felt weirder about standing around in my tee shirt and boxers, but considering that I could make out the outline of Sophie’s nipples against the flimsy fabric of her pajama top, and barely—barely—see the bottom curve of her ass where her shorts ended, I didn’t think I was overstepping any big boundaries.
I followed her out onto the patio, cigarette pack in hand, and slumped down into a chair. Drogon began scratching through his litter box and Sophie produced a fresh pack of cigarettes out of a pocket I hadn’t seen on her shorts. “So,” I said, lighting my own cig and taking a drag. “Why exactly did you let me stay the night?” Sophie shrugged.
“You walked me home and didn’t try to make a pass,” Sophie said.
“Was that some kind of test?” Sophie crinkled the foil and plastic from her pack of cigs into a little ball and stuffed it into the ashtray. She gave me that little smile again—that utterly confident, completely knowing smile that she’d flashed at the bar.
“Not a test,” Sophie said. “But it did say a lot about who you are as a person.” She tugged a cigarette free of the pack and brought it to her lips to light it; I tried not to stare, especially at the bead of sweat that began to roll down from her neck past her collarbones, or at the way that her arms pressed her tits together. I decided to look away altogether. “You know, Mark gave me his number last night,” Sophie said, blowing smoke away from her face.
“And you want to know if you should call him?” Tell her no. Tell her he’s a dog. The impulse jolted through my brain before I could stop it; but I managed to push it aside before I said anything.
“Mostly just interested in your reaction to it,” Sophie said, half-smiling again.
“Mark is into you,” I said with a shrug. “If you’re into him, you should call him.”
“That’s a very careful non-answer,” Sophie said tartly.
“He’s a drummer,” I explained.
“Go on,” Sophie said. I shrugged again.
“You were going on last night about how you don’t date guys in the scene because they want you to give them free drinks or whatever,” I pointed out. “Mark probably won’t ask you for free drinks, but you’d be breaking your self-imposed rule nonetheless.”
“You’re into me too,” Sophie said. I raised an eyebrow. “Come on, Dan—you wouldn’t have walked me home and talked to me half the night if you weren’t into me.”
“Maybe I’m just a good guy,” I countered.
“Maybe,” Sophie said. She licked her lips and took another drag of her cigarette. “But I’m still going to go with the theory of you liking me.” I pressed my lips together, resisting the urge to smile.
“And if I do? You don’t date local guys, remember?” Sophie held my gaze for a long moment and flicked the ash off the end of her cigarette.
“Maybe I’m not that much of an absolutist,” Sophie said. She stubbed out her cigarette. “Maybe I’m open to changing my mind on that score.” She stood up and I caught the barest flash of her tit as her top shifted. It sent a jolt of heat through me, straight to my cock. Then, she turned around and went into the apartment, and I saw the bottom curve of her ass cheeks.
Before I knew what I was doing, I had stood, and I followed her into the apartment. Sophie turned on her heel, only a few feet away from the kitchen, and my hands were already out. I reached for her shoulders, for her arms, and pulled her towards me. Acting completely on impulse, I ducked down and kissed her. I wrapped my arms around her waist, pressing her body against mine. Sophie tensed against me and then relaxed, and I heard her let out just the faintest moan.
I broke away from her lips and looked down into her eyes. “Not an absolutist?” Sophie’s cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright, and I knew—I knew in my bones—that she was turned on.
“Maybe not,” Sophie said breathlessly. She licked her lips and I smiled slowly. “But I am not going to have sex with you right now.”
“You’re not?” Sophie shook her head, slipping free of my arms. “Why not?”
“One—I need to run some errands before I’m due at Respects,” she said. “Two: I never put out before at least one date.” She stepped into the kitchen and started making coffee while I watched.
I went back to the couch, trying to decide how to move forward; Sophie was obviously attracted to me, but after Benny’s remarks the night before I didn’t want to push her—especially since Mark had given her his number. Either she’s into him or not, I told myself. And if she isn’t, it’s not like there’s anything wrong with going after her myself. “So since you need to go on a date with me, why don’t we check out the Norton next week?”
Sophie emerged from the kitchen with two cups of coffee. “The Norton is free for the next year and a half—that’s not a date,” she said.
“It is if we go out to dinner before or after,” I pointed out. Sophie handed me one of the cups and I drank down a gulp, keeping my gaze on her.
“Deal,” she said, smiling.
****
I had just finished setting up for the day’s recordings when Jules, Nick, and Mark came into the live room, talking amongst themselves. “I’m telling you, we need to punch up the vocals on ‘Turnstile,’” Nick was saying to Jules. “But Alex won’t listen to me, and Jack’s taking his side.”
“Jack’s on the side of the album,” Jules said, shaking his head. “If you want to suggest a change, make your case to him.”
“Dan—what do you think?” Nick glanced at me as he bent over to pick up one of his guitars.
“I think it’s worth looking at,” I replied. Mark stepped behind the drum kit. “Alex has been getting all ‘artistic integrity’ though.”
“He’s on my ass about the drum sounds, too,” Mark said.
“Well he should be—you were all sloppy on the fills yesterday,” I told him.
“I wasn’t sloppy!” Mark scowled at me.
“You kind of were,” Nick countered, grinning.
“Ah—fuck you,” Mark said. Alex came into the room.
“How are we doing today, gents?”
“Got a date for Friday,” Mark said, throwing his hands up in the air.
“With who?” Nick tried a chord on his Epiphone and nodded to himself, satisfied with the tone.
“New bartender at Respects,” Mark replied. My hand slipped on the neck of my bass.
“Really?” I hadn’t mentioned my upcoming date with Sophie to Mark—I figured he didn’t need to know until after I found out if there was anything to it.
“That Sophie chick?” Nick raised an eyebrow and looked at me. I’d told him about going home with Sophie, and that we’d made a date.
“Yeah,” Mark said. “I gave her my number the other night and we’ve been texting back and forth a bit. I’m taking her to the De Sade show.” Nick looked at me again, and I shrugged—hopefully not enough that Mark could see.
“Five minutes, guys,” Jack said from the control room. “Let’s get this show rolling, shall we?”
We started in on the first track, and I tried to focus on the task at hand, but the fact that Mark had a date with Sophie stuck in the back of my mind. Mark didn’t know that I had a date with Sophie; so there was no reason for me to be mad at him—but I was. I was mad at Sophie too, probably with more reason. After all, she had made a date with me, and then turned around and made one with Mark as well. You did tell her to text him if she was interested, I reminded myself, but even then it didn’t seem like any kind of excuse. She knew that Mark and I were in a band to
gether—and she should have been able to figure out that it would put a strain on things between us to both go after the same woman.
“We’re getting ragged in the rhythm section,” Jack said from the control room after we went through one of the new songs for the third time.
“What’s up?” Jules looked from Mark to me and back again. “You two are never sloppy like this.”
“It’s nothing,” I said. “Just tired.”
“Take a break,” Alex suggested. He turned to the control room. “We’re going to take five, Jack—I think we’re overthinking this whole thing.”
“Make it ten, get a cigarette and come back,” Jack suggested. I checked my pockets, found my phone and cigarettes, and put my bass down. I had to get out of the room—and I definitely needed to confront Sophie about what I’d found out. If she was going to play Mark and I off against each other, I’d cancel the damn date; I didn’t need that kind of drama in my life. Fuming, I left the studio and headed outside, blinking against the bright, mid-afternoon sun.
I sank down onto the grass, took my phone out of my pocket, lighting a cigarette and found Sophie’s number in my contact list. She’d given it to me before I’d left her apartment a few days before, and I’d texted her once or twice since then—mostly just how-are-you, checking in-type messages. I’d been totally clueless to the fact that she’d even followed up with Mark. Hey, I wrote. Just heard some interesting news. I tapped send and set my phone down on my knee while I smoked, trying to keep my anger in proportion.
A moment later, my phone vibrated and I looked at it. What news would that be? Something up with the album? I pressed my lips together until my throat tickled from the smoke hanging in it. I exhaled the smoke and coughed.
Actually I heard that you have a date with Mark, I wrote back. I wasn’t about to sugarcoat anything. Anything to say about that? I checked the time; I had another couple of minutes before we had to go back into the studio and get back to work.
He asked me out, I said yes. You told me to text him if I was interested. I stubbed out my cigarette and shook my head to myself.
